A/N: Well, this is a longer update! I'm feeling a little unsure the direction I want to take this after this chapter (I mean, I know the storyline, but I haven't decided how I want to write it) — it is obviously drawing quickly to a close. So it may be a while again before another update.
Emma slept restlessly that night, but woke up with a renewed sense of herself and a powerful motivation to take Mr. Knightley to task. She dashed off to Donwell immediately after breakfast and stormed into the library yet again. Knightley was, predictably, poring over his ledgers as usual, and looked up in surprise when she burst through the door.
"Emma!" He exclaimed.
"Mr. Knightley, I have spent all night thinking on it, and I cannot believe that you would really be so cruel."
He stood up. "What? What have I done? And—call me George?"
"You do not want me," she went on, "you really don't. All you men are the same, apparently; if my oldest and truest friend cannot leave me to what remains of my... virtue, then there is no hope for your entire rotten gender!"
Knightley frowned in consternation. "Emma, please sit, and let us talk about this."
"I'm going to call the marriage off," she told him, "even if I have to go to America." She sat on the sofa with a loud huff. "Horrid place. Everything is horrid."
Knightley came and sat next to her, close but not touching. "Emma," he entreated, "I do wish you wouldn't call it off. I should miss you if you went to America."
"I won't call it off if you tell me you'll leave me alone!" She said defiantly. "I thought you would be a better choice than Mr. Elton, that you would not make me—" she stopped, overtaken by awkwardness.
"Emma," Knightley repeated patiently. "I told you I would not force you. Elton would."
"But you did tell me that I had to agree to—" Emma stuttered, "to consummate... it." Knightley felt a stab of regret burst through him at her obvious discomfort, but waited for her to finish. "And, that's a kind of forcing, just like Mr. Elton would—maybe even worse, because you want me to agree and he probably wouldn't have cared."
Knightley swallowed. "Emma, I don't want you to agree; I want you to... to enjoy it."
"I cannot possibly ever enjoy that particular degradation, Mr. Knightley." Emma answered. "And I cannot promise you otherwise."
"That wasn't—I'm sorry for being so obtuse yesterday, dear friend—I'm not asking you to promise me anything, except that you understand that this... that it goes along with marriage; that the two are made to go together hand-in-hand. I was just trying to make it clear to you that despite our long-standing friendship, that I don't believe in the idea of a celibate marriage and that would not be my goal or my intention." Emma was looking steadfastly at her hands folded in her lap, so Knightley reached over and turned her chin towards him, looking solemnly at her eyes. "Emma, I would never force you. I would die of old age first. And, after so many years of regarding you merely as my little friend, my brother's sister-in-law; my closest neighbor—I think you may trust in my forbearance." He very, very gently ran his finger along her jawline, and felt her tremble, although she didn't break his gaze. "But I will not strive for celibacy, either, or encourage you in it. In fact," he added with a twinkle, "I think I cannot promise not to try to seduce you, little friend." He smiled at her. "That was what I meant to say yesterday, Emma; merely that if you were trying for a loveless marriage, I would not cooperate."
Emma was all confusion. "I cannot see you as a—a rake, sir," she said. "Seduction doesn't seem to be quite your line."
Knightley's eyes seemed much darker than she remembered. "You have never seen me with a wife," he replied. Emma had taken on a rather ghastly pale, and Knightley reached over and lightly patted her knee. "It's all right, Emma," he tried to assure her. "I promise—"
But Emma stood up, away from his reach. "It is not all right, Mr. Knightley," she said angrily. "You told me once that men liked to know that their wives were untouched, and—I am not."
"Emma, we've already—I would never hold any of that against you—"
"No, you told me, that if I had not bled, that I was still..." Emma swallowed, "still a virgin."
Knightley nodded, confused.
"And so you are under the impression that I am, in fact, a virgin."
Knightley nodded again.
"But Isabella told me—" Emma paused to take a deep breath and gather some bravery, "Isabella told me that when a man—we were talking of Mr. Elton, you understand—that on our wedding night, that he would... well, touch—inside—be inside—" she flushed.
"And Mr. Knightley, I did not bleed, I am sure of it, but—"
"But what?" Knightley asked her gently.
"But you were wrong!" She exclaimed. "I am not a virgin, by what Isabella told me—" her voice dropped to a whisper. "So you see, Mr. Knightley, I do not meet your requirements for a wife any more than I would have met Mr. Elton's."
"Emma..." Knightley stood up and grabbed her hands. "You can't think I would... I have told you more than once, friend, that none of that day matters to me!"
She batted his hands away and then, to his astonishment, started unbuttoning her pelisse and loosening the laces on her bodice.
"What? What are you doing, Emma?" he asked, trying to stop her furiously-working fingers, but she batted his hands away.
"Let me show you, Mr. Knightley," Emma said, working to open the front of her dress.
He stared in mute horror at her while she worked the neckline of her dress lower and lower.
"See, Mr. Knightley?" Emma demanded. "Do you see what he did to my-my breasts? Do you see what I am, what you would marry? What you would—would take to bed?"
He did see; he saw ugly half-moon shaped scars beginning to heal. His gut clenched and he wished the man had not been hung so he could run him through himself. "Emma—" but she interrupted him.
"And that's not all, Mr. Knightley," she continued. "I am not untouched. I am not a virgin. He—he touched me," she fumed, "he was—" she continued so quietly Knightley strained to hear her, "in-inside. He stopped just to unfasten his trousers, and then his friend persuaded him away, but—but he had already... so-so-so you see, you cannot marry me!"
At just that moment, John Knightley walked in the door, and quickly took in the scene, of Emma's undone bodice and spilling decolletage, his brother standing right next to her with a passionate expression on his face, and jumped to the entirely wrong conclusion. "George!" he said angrily. "I thought you, of all people, would have the decency to wait until the vows had been exchanged!"
Emma wailed in dismay and embarrassment and ran out of the room crying.
"John, you're a—a fool!" George Knightley replied, before dashing out after his fiancee.
He caught up to her in the garden, but she would not stop running. He overtook her and caught her in his arms and didn't let her go. She kicked and struggled and cried. "Let me go!" She twisted and kicked against his shins until they both tumbled to the ground. She would not stop fighting and trying to escape until, in desperation, he rolled over on her and pinned her arms to the grass. Emma abruptly went still as a statue and Knightley looked down at her in dismay.
"Emma," he said, making his voice as calm as he could, "if you continue running through the countryside in this state, you won't even be fit company for New York!"
He rolled off. "I won't hurt you. I'm not—I'm not him."
Still she didn't move. "Please talk to me, Emma," he begged her. "Come, let us sit on that bench, and speak frankly to one another. And then if you stilll want to run away in tears, I will let you, regardless of the damage it will do you."
Emma nodded finally and allowed him to lead her to the bench, which overlooked a quiet pond in one of the farthest reaches of the Donwell estate. He guided her to sit down, then knelt in front of her, hands resting gently on her knees in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. He swallowed. "Must I tell you again, Emma, that nothing that happened that day was your fault, and that only a brute would hold any of it against you?"
She nodded. "But, Mr. Knightley, you thought I was still a virgin, at least," she sniffed.
"It doesn't matter," he assured her. "I love you, darling Emma. You are my dearest friend." A troubled look crossed his face. "And I am so very, very sorry for troubling you so much yesterday—I am sorry you thought I could ever—I would never, ever, in a million years, wish to do anything that would bring you so much discomfort, whether the law gave me the authority to or not. Can you forgive me for leading you to the wrong conclusion?"
Emma nodded again.
"That's settled, then," he said with obvious relief. "And you will not run away to New York?"
"No. I will marry you," she agreed. "But—are you sure you won't change your mind, ever, and decide to hold it against me that I am not this mystical creature that men seek; that I am... defiled?"
"Defiled?" Knightley's brows shot up. "Emma, darling, it was not your fault! The blackguard—" he paused, "Emma, rape has no affect on genuine virtue," he said softly.
She chewed on her lower lip and attempted a smile, although the only thing that Knightley could see was a slight softening of her eyes. "What if—what if I am with child?"
Knightley frowned at her. "It's been many weeks, Emma," he said, "Haven't you—haven't you had your... your courses?" he asked with alarm.
"Oh, yes," Emma replied.
"Don't you know that... good grief, does Isabella tell you nothing at all?" he shook his head. "When a woman becomes with child, those, um, monthly disturbances stop. If you were with child, you would not have had your courses," he finished bluntly.
"Oh, that's a relief," Emma exclaimed. "I have been worried ever since Isabella explained to me about marriage and I realized that you had been mistaken—"
"I am not sure—" Knightley began, then started again. "Emma, were you petrified of Elton only because you thought you were not a virgin? I mean, if you thought you still were, would you rather... would you rather marry someone else?"
Emma looked at him blankly. "I have just explained to you that I am not a virgin," she protested, her voice overflowing with tension. "I fail to understand the aim of your question."
Knightley smiled a little sadly. "I think it is possible that Isabella mangled things again." He broke her gaze. "Emma, if you'd rather not discuss this, all you have to do is tell me—but just now, inside the house, you said... well, you said that 'then he began to unfasten his trousers'."
She nodded tersely, still not sure where the conversation was going.
Knightley took a deep breath. "But he never did?"
She shook her head.
"Then you are still a virgin, dear friend," he said heavily, "and free to marry whomever you will without fear of reproach or annulment. You don't—you don't have to marry your old neighbor, if you have a beau waiting in the wings."
"You know I don't!" Emma said in dismay. "But you must be mistaken, Mr. Knightley. I don't see what his trousers have to do with it; Isabella was grotesquely clear."
Knightley grit his teeth. "That would be an abnormality," he muttered; "your sister is generally anything but clear. What did she tell you?"
"Mr. Knightley, this is a very improper conversation," Emma retorted. "You're all the time chiding me for asking you impertinent questions, and now you are asking me to recount the single most impertinent set of information I've ever acquired! Besides, I'm sure you're well aware of the particulars!"
"Emma!" Knightley protested. "Let me assure you, I am asking you for a very good reason. If you are a virgin, then you may marry freely." He spoke very low. "I don't want you to be shackled to me for false reasons, because Isabella misled you—"
"Oh, goodness, Mr. Knightley," she sighed. "I cannot marry anyone else, virgin or not; my reputation is in tatters." She cleared her throat. "However, I am not the hesitant prude that you have been in our conversations, and so I will tell you." Emma pursed her lips. "Isabella told me," she began confidently, then wavered. "She told me, that Mr. Elton would t-touch me, would unfasten my nightclothes and t-t-touch my... my chest... and, and, between—here, you know," she gestured vaguely at her midsection, "that he would touch and be... inside... and that it would hurt very badly but just the first and, she said like you did, that there would be blood, but that I was not to be afraid," Emma finished in a rush.
"And that is all the more detail that she gave you?" Knightley asked with a sigh.
Emma nodded. "What more was there to say? It certainly seemed to fit my experience with the highwayman well enough."
"Emma," Knightley said, "I am very sorry to ask it, but—the highwayman—he touched you... there," he said with a similarly vague wave of his hand, "with...just his hand?"
"What on earth else should he 'touch' me with?" Emma exclaimed. "People generally touch with their hands, unless I'm much mistaken!" Her voice was nervous.
He cleared his throat. "Surely you've seen animals mating?" Knightley's voice was soft and gentle.
"Well, of course," she replied.
"And they don't, um, touch with their paws," he continued quietly.
"Well, no, but, people don't have that—" she broke off and stared in such horror and astonishment at his midsection that he reddened. "People do have?" Emma said in astonishment.
"Men do have," Knightley said stiffly.
"Oh!" Emma exclaimed and then realized that she was staring and looked away with a blush.
Knightley settled himself on the bench next to her. "So..." he began, but she interrupted.
"Mr. Knightley, if—then why—what was he doing with his hand? As you say, animals don't touch with their paws." Knightley started to shake his head and defer, but Emma interrupted him again. "Mr. Knightley, don't even tell me that it's an improper question. I think we are far beyond the bounds of that and, besides, if I am to be your wife, you are forcing me to consider the idea of not merely discussing inappropriate things with you, but to actually do inappropriate things—"
"Emma!" He broke in. "Fine. Are you telling me, once and for all, that you are not going to call this marriage off?"
She frowned. "I don't see, virgin or not, that I really have any more choice than I did," she said. "My reputation is ruined, at any rate," she admitted, "And—you are my very dear friend, Mr. Knightley, and—I know you are very kind."
He smiled at her encouragingly. "I am glad to hear you still think that."
"Of course," Emma assured him. "But now, you must tell me, because I am still very confused—why did he—with his hand?"
A dark look came over Knightley's face. "Well, he obviously had the intention of taking the thing to its full denouement—before his companion urged his better judgment."
Emma nodded but waited expectantly.
"He couldn't simply... it would be difficult... without—" He stopped. "Oh, Emma, I will explain better after we are wed, I promise."
Emma frowned. "That is not very forthright of you, Mr.-George," she sighed.
"I like to hear you call me by my name," Knightley said eagerly.
"All right, then; speak bluntly to me about one thing now," Emma's voice was unyielding. "You and Isabella both mentioned blood, but, I fail to understand... where would the blood come from? And how does it matter whether it was his hand or—"
Knightley sighed. "And then, if I answer this, you will promise me no more bluntness until it's in its proper frame, of marriage?"
"I think you're being a dreadful stick-in-the-mud about it," Emma scoffed.
"It is not easy to talk about, Emma!" He protested. "It is not proper. Unmarried ladies are not supposed to have such knowledge."
"Why?"
"I think the assumption is that if young ladies knew more, they would be tempted to act on that knowledge," he explained.
Emma frowned. "But that's not fair!"
"No, it isn't," Knightley agreed.
"At any rate, though, Mr.- George," Emma contented, "You yourself said that Isabella should have been clearer. So, pretend yourself to be my better sister," she said, "And tell me what I should know before I am married. That is fair, even under your scruples."
"I am not your sister," Knightley said archly, "which is a significant difference."
"But you would not have me languish in ignorance, either," Emma plied.
"No," he agreed. "All right. I will tell you. The blood comes from the maidenhead—which is a small bit of skin deep inside..." he stuttered a little and his cheeks grew rosy. "Inside you," he finished. "When you... when you come together with a man for the first time, it breaks and is gone. That is what Isabella meant by it hurting—goodness, what I meant that day when I asked you if it had hurt—and it bleeds."
"Bloody sheets," Emma added with new understanding.
Knightley nodded. "Yes. And—your other question—his hand... his fingers... probably didn't break the barrier, almost certainly not if there was no blood. It would take purpose for him to have broken it with just his fingers, and he had no reason for that."
"But why would he touch me with his fingers at all?" Emma asked. "And why is it so inevitable that the barrier be broken in—in marital intimacy—if he could do what he did without breaking it?"
Knightley choked. "It is quite a different thing—" he broke off. "And for your first question, that is completely beyond the bounds of what we had agreed, Emma; ask me again on our wedding night, if you must."
Emma sighed. "All right, Mr. Knightley, you win."
He smiled at her, a genuine warm smile that reached into her and warmed her very blood. "I do indeed win, Miss Woodhouse. Now, let us go back to Donwell—back to John!—before he is convinced I've indeed abandoned all my sense and decided to ravish you in the wood!"
With an uncertain look on her face, Emma took the hand he offered, and the two stood.
"I don't think—" Emma tugged at the laces on her dress. "I cannot—" she flushed, realizing for the first time the expanse of skin she'd been displaying for their entire awkward conversation.
"I am no ladies' maid," Knightley said reproachfully, "but I will try. Turn around."
She complied and soon felt his deft fingers tightening her laces, working gently around her neckline to urge them back into proper order. His fingers were soft and warm and light and feathery. "There," he said at last. "Let me see." He held her shoulders and turned her back around toward him and inspected the state of her bodice. "Not quite perfect," he said regretfully, "but the best a simple man can do, I think."
Emma was beginning to feel warm under his inspecting gaze, a feeling that only intensified when he reached out and tugged gently upward on the top of her bodice to try to get it to slip back into place. She licked her lips. Surely—was he trying to seduce her, as he had promised? Already? Emma could not recall another time in their entire acquaintance when Knightley had ever touched her dress; but then, she had certainly never ripped it half-open in front of him, either.
The moment was over as quickly as it began, so quickly that she thought she might have imagined the intensity entirely in her own head. She took Knightley's offered arm and the two walked quietly back to Donwell.